“When can I start?” he asked.

“Well, I’ll have to get them horses in and drafted,” Stanton answered, suddenly thoughtful. “That’ll take a couple of days. Let me think. Ah, yes! Tomorrow the rabbit-inspector is due to arrive. In the horse-yards is a light-draft gelding with white forefeet. Harness him to one of the poison-carts in the shed and run it all around. Must make out we’re doing something.” He nodded and passed on.

Bony, chuckling, went over to the horse-yards, cut out the gelding, harnessed him, and took him over to the shed. He had no difficulty in finding the poison-carts. They were light two-wheeled affairs, carrying an iron cylinder to hold the poisoned pollard when it was churned up into small pills and carried by a pipe down to a position behind a disk-wheel and dropped into the furrow the wheel made.

Bony found the pollard in a barrel, and he also found another barrel full of water in which the cakes of phosphorus were kept. There was, however, only a very small piece of phosphorus remaining. It floated on the surface of the water, dirty white in colour, and as soon as he lifted it clear it began to smoke. Obviously it was insufficient to make even onecylinderful of baits.

Unable to discover any further supply of the poison, Bony, calculating that Mr Stanton would have had time to breakfast, sauntered over to the office building adjoining the house. Within he found his new employer.

“We want more phosphorus, Jeff,” he drawled. “There’s only about a quarter ounce left in the barrel.”

“Phosphorus? What do you want phosphorus for?” Stanton demanded.

“Want it for the poison-cart,” explained Bony patiently.

“You don’t want to worry about poison,”came the roared injunction. “All you got to do is to drive the cart about the homestead, so that when the inspectorcomes to-morrow he’ll see plenty of furrow-marks.”